The Tower's Shadow
by Fflur Cadwgawn
Summary: When Frank Hardy is found following an attack, the reporter who found him is assigned to find out exactly what happened. Slight AU.
1. Chapter 1

The Tower's Shadow

By Fflur Cadwgawn

When Frank Hardy is found following an attack, the reporter who found him is assigned to find out exactly what happened. Slight AU.

Disclaimer: Anything recognizable isn't mine.

Author's Note: This story takes place at Chautauqua Institution. There are a lot of good things about this place, one being that it's the playground of the rich, some of the famous, and more than a few well-known university professors. It was originally a bible study camp, so the original location in Western New York State just south of Niagara Falls has a LOT of references to the Christian religion. It was built during the Second Great Awakening (in the mid-1800s) as a walking community, and then some sections were added on in the height of the flight to the suburbs movement in the 1960s. The old section is very crowded as far as buildings go, with a lot of Victorian and Greek influencing in the architecture. Some structures also have obviously been influenced by some of the architecture present during the communes that sprouted up everywhere in this time period. I'm not going to try to make Chautauqua a product of its past. The community, because it is so well known and so close to some other major nationally recognized landmarks, will be accurately described.

* * *

Chapter 1

Monday Morning

Nancy Drew smiled to herself as she peeled and sliced vegetables for her lunch. It was 8:30 am—just half an hour until she had to clock in at the newsroom. The graduate student had managed to snag a summer job as a reporter, at Chautauqua Institution, of all places. Nancy's smile turned into a grin as she added a spoonful of peanut butter to the Tupperware dish of carrot and celery sticks. She'd worked at the _Chautauquan Daily_ for two weeks now, having been assigned the morning lecture beat. Finishing her lunch prep, Nancy slung her hippie-inspired bag over her shoulder and grabbed her black thermos of coffee. "I'm outta here, Aunt Ellen," she said, giving the other woman in the kitchen a hug. "See you tonight."

Nancy stepped out of the house into a nearly perfect summer morning. A nearly perfect morning—Nancy toyed with the nagging thought of retrieving her umbrella form the entry way. The black flies were biting, hard: a sure sign of at least heavy rain later that day. Nancy decided against it, though, for she had just enough time to get to the newsroom now.

Aunt Ellen wasn't really her aunt, but rather Hannah Gruen's sister. Hannah was the housekeeper for Nancy and her father, Carson; Nancy had grown up calling Ellen her aunt after Nancy's mother died. Aunt Ellen's husband had died in the 1980s and left her a sizable inheritance.

Aunt Ellen's permanent residence was in the residential section of Chautauqua, just on the path that cut through the woods to emerge by the Turner Community Center. It was a two-story house, with large glass windows overlooking the roundabout drive the house was situated on. It had been built at the height of the modern art movement, and was in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright. Wrought iron swirled into floral-shaped window panes on the front door. A cantilevered white stucco balcony hung out over the side of the house, and it was that balcony where Aunt Ellen ate most of her meals in good weather. A set of white wicker lawn furniture and a glass table with a braided rush edging graced that balcony, and were now gleaming in the light from the morning sun In stark contrast to the overall elegance of the house, a quirky umbrella in bold rainbows was currently shading the table from the sun.

Nancy cut through the woods, enjoying the still mugginess of another hot day in Western New York State. She could almost imagine the grounds in an earlier century. Daydreaming, she almost stepped on _him_.

"Oh, my gosh," she whispered, frantically digging her phone out of her bag and hitting the emergency call button. Waiting for the operator to answer, she knelt down to feel for a pulse. Was there one? She couldn't tell.

"911," came the voice.

"Yes, I'm in the woods by Turner Community Center at Chautauqua Institution," Nancy rattled off. "There's a young man here. I…..I don't know if he's alive."

At the operator's direction, Nancy found the man's wallet. "License…" she muttered, flipping through it and noting the clearly recent cashed paycheck there. Huh. "It says his name is Frank Hardy."

###

Nancy sighed, running her hands through her short hair. She sat in the back of an ambulance that had pulled behind Turner; as luck would have it the events of the morning had triggered _another_ asthma attack. She was getting sick of the things; back home in River Heights, she'd _never_ gotten them but here…well, here the doctor was convinced it was weird pollen Nancy wasn't used to. Aunt Ellen stood by the path, watching the EMTs load the young man into another waiting ambulance. Aunt Ellen turned her attention back to the police officer, but Nancy wasn't really focused on that even though she knew Aunt Ellen was probably verbally chewing up the officer and spitting him back out for letting something like this happen. Aunt Ellen was…forceful, at best, sometimes, a complete opposite of Hannah Gruen.

"Nancy!"

The male voice broke through to her. She swallowed, struggling against a thick throat.

Her boss. Of course. She'd texted him that she was going to be late today after practically tripping on that man. Quite frankly, though, she had other things on her mind. Like breathing. She put her head in the palms of her hands, trying to draw air as her chest tightened again. The O2 monitor started screeching. Josh heard the commotion, and Nancy saw his feet stop a little distance before her.

"Before you ask," Nancy rasped, "asthma. Gimme a few minutes."

It was 10 am now. She was missing the lecture.

"I gave Dan the lecture beat for the rest of the week," Josh said. "I want you finding out what you can about what happened here."

"But—"

"Ah! No buts. You're a good reporter. You were here first. Get the facts. You're good at that."

"I'm not an investigative reporter, Josh!" She still couldn't breathe. "What makes you think I can do this?"

"You said you wanted to improve your culture skills. So get out there and do it."

Fine. "What, the orange blanket doesn't tell you anything?" she snapped as an EMT poked and prodded at her. "I'm also a bloody _witness_!"

He ignored her and turned to leave. "Tomorrow would be a good day to start," he said over his shoulder.

###

Fenton Hardy, sitting beside his wife, Laura, clapped with the rest of the crowd as the Education Director of Chautauqua Institution finished reading an impressive resume. "Please welcome to the Amphitheater Lecture Series archaeologist Jessica Donaldson," the woman concluded.

A younger woman with light brown hair pulled into a strict bun stood up from her chair, located next to the podium where the Education Director stood, and traded places with the older woman. As she did so, the giant three-fold screen above the stage displayed a PowerPoint presentation title—"'An Archaeological Study of Fingerprints and Their Links to Ancient Trade Routes,' presented by Jessica Donaldson."

"Good morning," Jessi said in her soft, plainly accented, lilting voice, gripping the podium as though it were her lifeblood. Fenton could hear a slight tremor in her voice, and sympathized with her: The Chautauqua Institution Amphitheater held 6,000 people and had played host to people like Franklin Roosevelt, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony, and countless others. Jessi's lecture had drawn in so many spectators that there was standing room only. If Fenton was standing in her place, he'd be nervous, too.

Fenton for once was relieved to be in an audience, not having to worry about anything going wrong _at all_. His last two cases had ended badly (being chased all over Acapulco happened during the first one, and the second one wasn't even really for a case initially but still wound up with him spending quite the breathless night in Washington, D.C.). Jessi was a former intern of his from his days as a cop with the NYPD, and he sincerely hoped that her lecture went well. After Frank and Joe's success with capturing Spoonface the month before, he had decided to briefly put aside his own projects to give himself and his sons a much-needed vacation and Jessi moral support.

"You've all heard of fingerprints being used in the law enforcement field to identify all sorts of individuals and their links to crime scenes," Jessi began. "This is a research project for which I've been able to team up with some very well-known people in law enforcement, including the internationally known detective Fenton Hardy. I'm very excited to be presenting my research here at Chautauqua this morning."

As he listened to Jessi's preamble, Fenton looked around, and was pleased to see that many members of the audience were wearing open looks of astonishment that Jessi was claiming to be able to identify entire clay production sites and the regions they served not only by the isotopes in the clay, a common enough procedure in archaeology, but by the fingerprints left on the baked clay itself.

"You may be wondering," Jessi said, "if this is reflected in the human record." She smiled—no, grinned, like the Cheshire Cat.

"My friends," Jessi Donaldson said, "it is. It is indeed. This morning, let me take you on a journey—a journey to the world's oldest civilizations and the world's oldest trade routes, and how to find them."

###

Fenton privately was surprised that Joe hadn't been interested in attending Jessi's lecture. Normally his youngest son was obsessed with fingerprints, and he would have thought that Joe would have been interested in some of Jessi's theories of being able to trace trade routes through fingerprint science. But, that morning Joe had begged off anything requiring brain power.

"We just solved a huge case, Dad," Joe had whined at breakfast. "We're on _vacation_."

"In the world's learning place," Fenton reminded him.

Joe had just rolled his eyes over his spoonful of cereal. " _Daaaaaaad_." His tone was clear: _Not interested!_

Time to change the subject.

"Where's Frank?" he asked, taking a sip of coffee.

"He wanted to go check out the old steamboat route," Joe replied, his voice muffled around the cereal. He swallowed. "He left at 7 this morning. I'm pretty sure he was after some books, too, but the bookstore doesn't open til 9."

###

Fenton and Laura clapped with the rest of the crowd. Jessi, to his surprise, had received a standing ovation. Whether it was for her enthusiasm during the lecture, or the content of the lecture, he didn't know. But he stood with the crowd and, when the applause died down, made his way through the wooden pews and concrete aisle ways to the front of the stage.

"Mr. Hardy!" Jessi exclaimed, spotting them heading toward her. She was standing by one of the door that went out into the back gardens of the Amphitheater. A road above it went straight to the main door of the Athenaeum Hotel just down the hill from the Amphitheater. "I'm glad you could come!"

"This is my wife, Laura. You'll probably meet Frank and Joe later. I'm surprised Joe didn't come."

"Fenton, does that really surprise you?" Laura asked, laughing.

"I am really craving caffeine after that lecture," Jessi said finally. "Want to go get a coffee in Bestor Plaza?"

"Sure," Fenton agreed.

"Starbucks or Afterwords Café?"

Fenton said, "We can get a Starbucks drink any time we want to in Bayport. Let's act like real Chautauquans for the day and go to the Afterwords Café."

The three of them walked down the ancient steps of the back porch of the Amphitheater, steps that have played host to so many famous historical figures, and through the rhododendron forest in the back gardens to a red-painted bridge, and from there to Bestor Plaza.

Bestor Plaza was the heart of Chautauqua Institution. Accessible by foot via Vincent Walkway, one of at least three locations on the grounds named for Bishop John Heyl Vincent, it was the central area of the resort grounds. Chautauqua itself was in the fashion of a _museion_ , an area in ancient Greece where intellects gathered to discuss literature, art, and music. A fountain in the exact middle of Bestor Plaza showed the four muses that were represented by Chautauqua—education, music, literature, and art. Set on each of the four corners of the fountain were giant stone fishes.

It was the first week of the Chautauqua season. A crew of gardeners was still scraping moss from the brick walkway that starts at the Amphitheater and quarters the plaza. Fenton, Laura, and Jessi ambled down the section of the brick walkway that lines the east side of Bestor Plaza, threading their way through the after-lecture crowd. In the distance, the Miller Bell Tower chimed the half hour. Up ahead, Fenton could see a crowd of several dozen people deep swarming in front of the Brick Walk Café on the other side of Miller Street.

"Smith Library," Jessi said, pointing to the big brick building on their left. "And that small building on our right is the current home of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle, which to date is the oldest continuous book club in America." A young boy stood in front of the CLSC building hawking newspapers—the _Chautauquan Daily_ , Fenton realized. It was a summer job traditionally held by children up to fifteen years old.

"The history here is absolutely amazing," Jessi breathed, ever the archaeologist. "You can actually get up close and personal with it here."

Fenton grinned again. Jessi hadn't changed one bit from when she was his intern. He started to reply to her comment, but was interrupted by his phone ringing.

"Dad," Joe said seriously when he answered, "you and Mom need to come to Dunkirk. Frank's been attacked."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Anything recognizable isn't mine. 115 Cookman doesn't exist.

A/N: I'm a professional cultural anthropologist and have recently been re-contacted by the people I worked with for almost a year some time ago. The good news: Indigenous ethnobotany round two is happening within the next few months and I can't wait to get back to these people. The bad news: This type of work seriously eats into my fanfic writing time.

* * *

Chapter 2

Tuesday Morning

Nancy was still grumbling to herself the next morning when she punched in at the newsroom. Ignoring the stares—news was the one thing that travelled fast in this part of the country—she immediately poured herself a large coffee in the office kitchenette. As an afterthought, she added sugar, which she normally didn't take with her coffee. Her throat was still scratchy from yesterday.

There was a note on her desk when she logged into her workstation, in Josh's handwriting: _115 Cookman, Laura Hardy._ She'd told Josh yesterday after getting out of the hospital what had happened. It looked like Josh was using his girlfriend's influence with the main gate records again.

So. Vacation with his family, that was what that Hardy person had been here for. 115 Cookman was by the place she and a lot of other Chautauqua workers called the Halls: The Hall of Philosophy, the Hall of Christ, the Hall of Missions, Alumni Hall, Pioneer Hall. It was the old section of Chautauqua, built when Chautauqua was initially imagined as a walking community. It was far more reminiscent of crowded residential urban life than where Aunt Ellen lived. So—first time visitors, probably there for a week or two, tops. Probably, they'd gone through a travel agency.

Out of curiosity Nancy brought up a search engine and typed in "Frank Hardy."

"Sons of Famed Detective Place Murderer Behind Bars," she whispered, clicking on the link.

Startled at the accompanying photo with the story, Nancy sighed. Great. So that young man yesterday really had been Frank Hardy, and it looked like his attack had been in retribution. That article was only four days old. Plus, his wallet had still had all that money in it. A simple robbery wouldn't have left that.

Scrolling down further, Nancy started wondering how much _worse_ the situation could get. The article listed Laura Hardy as Frank's _mother._

That did it. She printed off the article, finished the coffee, and slapped the sticky note with the Cookman address to the top of it. She stuffed the article into a manila envelope on the way to find Josh.

She tracked down Josh on the porch of Logan Hall. "I thought I'd go talk with that woman this morning," Nancy said, watching the newsboys set up in Bestor Plaza. The _Daily_ was hawked every morning by younger teens in the Plaza.

"Great," Josh said with a grin. He was leaning on the porch railing, watching the newsies set up in the Plaza and by the Amphitheater. "Let me know how it goes." He went back into the building.

Nancy stood there, inhaling the scents of wet rhododendrons, idly fingering the manila envelope. That damning article was inside.

First things first: Coffee, then Cookman. She crossed the Plaza, glancing only briefly at the Muse fountain that quarters the Plaza. Smith Library, a large brick Colonial building, was on her right, and the Colonnade, an even larger Grecian-influenced building, was on her left. Vincent Brick Walk was behind her, and a main access to Logan Hall where the _Daily_ was located. She knew there was a webcam operating in real time on the Plaza, anchored above the main door of the Colonnade; in fact, there were cameras _everywhere_ on the grounds. There wasn't a long line yet for the tiny Starbucks gazebo by the Brick Walk Café, and it was a slightly cooler, decidedly drizzly day compared with the mugginess of the previous day. Yep. Definitely coffee. Grad school was doing horrible things to her caffeine addiction.

With all the people already in the Plaza, she didn't see the blond man following her.

###

Nancy waited in the line at the Starbucks gazebo, listening to the conversations around her. One of the newsies, a fifteen-year-old named Jake, was by the gazebo. He caught her eye and grinned.

She paid for her coffee and turned left, toward the library. Vincent Brick Walk would take her directly to the Hall of Philosophy, and from there she could easily access 115 Cookman.

"Jake, can I get a paper?" she asked, handing him the change from her coffee bill.

 _Man Attacked in Turner Woods_ , the _Daily_ headline screeched in bold print on the first page of the second section. Nancy grimaced; Josh had certainly worked fast. The paper listed Hardy as being in critical condition at Brooks Memorial Hospital in Dunkirk. Josh had apparently convinced his girlfriend, who worked at the main gate, to give him all the particulars on the Hardys. Nancy knew that there were records and time stamps of nearly everyone's activities on the grounds of Chautauqua Institution, from first entering through the gate and scanning a gate pass to presenting that gate pass at major public events like Amphitheater lectures. Not to mention that there were security cameras almost _everywhere_.

Her phone buzzed with a text message. Josh. _Gate and security camera warrants ready by 2 pm. Talk to Officer Jacobs_.

She was going to be _so glad_ when her stint at playing Sherlock was done and she could get back to being just an everyday reporter.

Miller Bell Tower chimed 10, then launched into an off-key rendition of "The Sound of Music," the old bells sounding faintly this far from the beach. The Tower marked the old steamboat route on Chautauqua Lake.

Nancy threaded her way through the crowds by the Amphitheater. In the 1800s, the American suffrage movement had taken root there after the initial rallies at Seneca Falls. She shivered as the drizzle became sprinkles. Well, drat, and her umbrella was back at Aunt Ellen's _again_. She picked up her pace, hoping that the real storm would hold off until she could talk to Laura Hardy.

It didn't. The downpour started by the time she reached the Hall of Missions, and when she finally knocked on the door of 115 Cookman, she was soaked to the skin. She'd discarded the coffee along the way when the paper cup got too wet from the drenching rain, and stood hunched over herself while waiting for Mrs. Hardy to open the door. She winced, looking up as the power line overhead snapped in the strong winds from the storm.

Nancy recognized her from the article photo as the door opened. "Laura Hardy?" she asked.

"Yes?" The older woman's eyes were guarded, dark, and suspicious under her dark blonde hair.

"Hi, I'm Nancy Drew." She was ready to explain herself, but there wasn't a need.

"Come in," she said, opening the door. Nancy nodded her thanks, a wry, apologetic smile on her face for being completely soaked through from the storm, and stepped into the foyer. Overhead, an electric mockery of a Victorian chandelier hung in the dark hallway. The floor was hard wood, slightly splintered in spots. The walls, which even Nancy could tell were drywall, were painted a light lavender. A knitted lace valence, weighted down with lavender beads, hung over the half window in the door, and the wallpaper was a stylized garden theme full of violets and spikes of lavender. The Hardys had definitely gone through a travel agency. Mrs. Hardy didn't strike Nancy as being the type of person to go to the trouble of color-coding and theming a vacation rental. Besides, 115 Cookman was a duplex housing unit for vacationers.

"The police told me you found Frank," Mrs. Hardy said. They both jumped at a sudden, _bright_ flash of lightning that was almost immediately accompanied by a loud crash of thunder. "Oh, dear," Mrs. Hardy grimaced. "I doubt you'll be going back out in that any time soon. Let's go sit." She eyed Nancy, standing in the foyer and dripping on the violet-themed welcome mat. "Let me get you a towel."

"Oh, no, that's not necessary," Nancy started, but Mrs. Hardy stopped her with a raised palm.

"Believe me, it's the least I can do for you," Mrs. Hardy said. She motioned Nancy through to the living room.

"How is he?" Nancy asked, feeling awkward.

"Critical," came the answer, muffled in a linen closet. Mrs. Hardy handed Nancy a fluffy dark grey towel with embroidered violets along one edge. "But he'll live." She gave Nancy a piercing look. "How are _you_ holding up? I saw you yesterday at the ER but didn't get a chance to talk to you after the cops told me who you were and why you were there, too."

"Okay," she replied, her throat suddenly thick again. _No, not here!_ She ignored the warning feeling in her throat, and reached for the article in her bag. It was only slightly damp, a surprise after the drenching rain outside. Oil cloth bags were definitely her new favourite accessory for this weather. Thunder crashed again as the wind picked up even more.

"I don't know how much you know about me," she said finally, toying with the staple in the article's pages and mentally cursing Josh for putting her in this situation. There was a reason she just did the paperwork back home for her dad.

"You write for the _Daily_ ," Mrs. Hardy stated. She held up a folded newspaper that had been resting on the arm of the couch. "You're quite a good writer. Frank was impressed with the article you wrote about that astrophysicist who lectured at the Amphitheater last week." She paused, taking in Nancy with a pursed lip and a cock of her head, as if she was both debating what to say next and sizing up Nancy all in one go. "And yesterday you stumbled into something you wish you hadn't."

Well, _that_ was certainly true. "What if," Nancy said carefully, holding the towel and article with both hands, "I told you I think the reason Frank Hardy was attacked was in retribution?"

"To be honest, it wouldn't be the first time," his mother replied. Thunder crashed, too close again. "What proof do you have?"

Nancy handed her the article. "Josh—my boss at the _Daily_ —put me to finding out why Frank was attacked. I found this article this morning. Spoonface, huh?"

Mrs. Hardy made a wry face. "The killer Frank and his brother Joe were after."

"I thought you people didn't like publicity," Nancy remarked. She remembered watching undercover cop shows as a kid with her dad, who was a lawyer, and remembered how Carson Drew had always pointed out all the legal mistakes.

"Guess sometimes it comes with the territory."

They both jumped as a loud, splintering crash echoed outside. The lights in the house flickered, then went out. "That sounded like a tree or something fell on the power lines," Nancy said, frowning.

"The question is," Mrs. Hardy added, clearly spooked, "was it the storm, or was it cut?"

"I know I'm just a journalist," Nancy said, "but I was assigned to this case—to find out why Frank was attacked yesterday. Josh texted me earlier. He's got contacts all over here and is using them to get information. My research this morning told me that your whole family have worked your own cases. Josh will kill me…but I could use the help."

Mrs. Hardy nodded. "All right."

They were interrupted by Mrs. Hardy's cell phone ringing. "Mom, it's Joe," a male voice said, and Nancy could hear him clearly through the connection. "Frank's awake."

Nancy shifted uncomfortably, the towel forgotten on the couch.

"Oh, thank God," Mrs. Hardy breathed. "Listen, Joe, it's storming something fierce here. A tree knocked out the power. We'll be there as soon as we can."

"'We'?" Joe asked as Nancy shot Mrs. Hardy a questioning look.

"The girl who found him is here. She works for the _Chautauquan Daily_ and got assigned our case, believe it or not."

"Mom, only us would have something like that happen," Joe said, laughing in disbelief.

Suddenly, Nancy's blood turned cold as she realized something. With no power…..She frantically grabbed her phone.

 _Talking to Hardys now_ , she texted Josh. _Power is out on Cookman. What about Logan?_

The reply came immediately. _No power here either. Send me your article via your phone when you have it done_. Nancy couldn't help herself as the realization hit home, with the hardness of a sledgehammer. _Oh, no._

Mrs. Hardy ended her call and eyed Nancy with another of her piercing looks. "You okay?" she asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Somebody _is_ after you," Nancy breathed. "No electricity and the main gate attendants can't scan our passes. No power, and whoever attacked Frank can go about completely unnoticed. There are cameras everywhere here. There are only a few spots where there aren't cameras. Oh!" Nancy exclaimed, remembering. "Josh said to talk with Officer Jacobs this afternoon about getting a warrant, at 2 pm. You and Joe need it more than I do."

The thunder was definitely moving off. Popup thunderstorms are common in Western New York in the summer.

"The police department it is," Mrs. Hardy said grimly, grabbing up rain ponchos and her keys. "Right after we check out that tree that took out the power."


End file.
